Follow you no more
by noparty4kitty
Summary: Daryl had thought he was finally getting his life together with his beautiful fiancee and her son, but then that all gets ripped away in the early days of the ZA. Now it's just him and Merle - and Daryl's memories of that promising future - holed up in an old farmhouse, trying to figure out how to live now amidst the chaos. (M for language/sex)
1. Chapter 1

**This is the development of a thought I had about how Daryl ended up so bitter and angry in S1 and early in S2. It takes place in the early days of the ZA, with flashbacks to his life pre-ZA. And if you have read any of the other fics I've read, you will quickly realize that this is very different from the other stuff. There's a lot of sad Daryl here, so don't say I didn't warn ya! ;)**

** And MUCHAS MUCHAS GRACIAS to beta reader extraordinaire Incog Ninja! You rock!**

_I had an awful dream/Laid your bones by a shallow stream/And I carved your name in a willow tree/And I beat the ground_  
_With water clear and sun abright/I let the tears alone to dry/I raise my arms up to the sky/And challenged god_  
_He had no prose/He had no right/To take my dove, my little light/Half of my soul, half of my sight/My beating heart, my precious wife_  
_Have you no answer/I'll follow you no more/I'm on my own/This means war_

-"This Means War," Shovels & Rope

A dusty pickup came crunching up the driveway, its pace much slower than it had been the week before. Pulling up in front of the house, Daryl climbed out of the cab, shouldering a rifle and sliding a knife through his belt buckle. His face was stony as he went to the front door. Taking a deep breath, he threw the door open, rifle drawn. Quickly, he cased the house, quietly calling, "Rollie? Rollie, buddy, you here?" The house was empty.

Passing through the kitchen, he paused only a second, his eyes surveying the mess, before he went out the back door and disappeared into the woods.

At dusk, Daryl returned to the farmhouse, alone. He found Merle relaxing on the couch with a bottle of tequila and a smoke, amid the debris of the house. Merle looked like he was going to make a smartass comment, but Daryl just glared at him. "Can't be fuckin' bothered to unload the goddamn truck?" Daryl stalked outside and Merle followed.

Daryl's truck was loaded down with supplies. He and Merle had taken guns and ammo from their trailer, but the trailer park where they'd lived was such a shit show that they weren't able to get much more than that before they were forced to run. They had tried to raid a Kroger and then a Publix on their way to the farmhouse, but discovered the stores were overrun with walkers, and more than the two of them could handle. They finally found a QuikStop that they were able to clear out. It looked like they were planning the party of a lifetime - cases and cases of beer and cigarettes, chips, pop, all that shit. With a twinge, Daryl thought how pissed Bree would have been at him for filling her house with junk food. Shaking his head slightly, he cleared that thought out of his head.

Merle had followed Daryl on his motorcycle._ Asshole can't leave his baby behind_, Daryl thought wryly. _Woulda been more helpful if he took something with some room to stow shit_.

The brothers began unloading the truck and filling the house with what they'd stolen. _Not really like stealin' anymore, though. Nobody left to even steal from_, Daryl mused. They had to pause once or twice to pick off a walker that had wandered in out of the woods. Daryl had noticed almost immediately how few there were the further out you got. Once they got everything in the house, Merle flopped back on the couch, dumping a bag full of pill bottles on the coffee table. They'd also ransacked a Walgreens on their way to the farmhouse, and Merle had picked up a junkie's dream's worth of narcotics, along with antibiotics that they figured might come in handy eventually. "Think 'bout it, Lil Brother, if there was ever a time t' get fuckin' loaded, this is _it_," Merle told him with a dry laugh. He stared at Daryl for a rare serious moment. "Might help clear ya mind."

After a minute's hesitation, Daryl took him up on the offer, and Merle dumped a couple of Xanax into Daryl's open palm. Washing it down with a swig of Jack Daniels, Daryl lit a cigarette and stretched out on the floor. Merle thankfully kept his trap shut, because what the fuck could he say? Even _he_ knew better. Daryl rubbed his eyes tiredly. He couldn't begin to even comprehend how quickly the world had devolved into something out of a nightmare. He tried to restrain his mind from wandering to all the things he wanted to forget, but the Xanax kicked in pretty quickly, loosening his coiled muscles and letting him fall asleep.

0000000

A week earlier, Daryl had come flying up that driveway like he was being chased by the devil himself. In some ways, the analogy was terrifyingly accurate. He had been away on a hunting trip with Merle when they had both realized that something in the world had gone seriously awry. The first time he saw one of the..._things_, it was surreal. What words could describe when it seemed like you were suddenly a part of a horror movie or some fucked up video game? Disbelief? Terror? Nothing even came close.

Daryl and Merle were way up in the mountains north of Atlanta and hadn't seen another soul for about a week when they spotted what they thought was someone in a shitload of trouble. Daryl's first instinct was to see if the guy needed some help, but Merle, always on edge, held Daryl back. In retrospect, he'd probably saved Daryl's life. As the guy got closer, they could tell something really was wrong with him, but as much as they called out to him, they got no response. Merle started to get itchy and raised his rifle at the guy. That's when Daryl knew something was way off, and he followed suit. Pretty quickly, they went from asking if the guy was OK to demanding he stay the hell where he was, but the guy just kept shuffling towards them.

When he got close enough that they could see the guy's face, Merle hissed, _"What the fuck?_"

Daryl didn't even have those words. His mouth was a desert and ice ran through his veins as he took in the glassy white eyes, the graying skin, the hand that looked like something had _gnawed it off_. And yet the guy - the _thing_ - just kept on coming at them. Then there was a crack of a gun, Daryl jumped, and whatever it was that had been coming towards them dropped to the ground. Merle had shot him. Daryl finally managed to form a sentence. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Merle. What the hell was that?"

Merle had already gone for a closer look. "Goddammit if I know," he muttered. "Fuckin' shit! Dude smells like roadkill that's been bakin' on the side a' the road for a fuckin' week." Daryl started to squat down next to him, but gagged when he caught a whiff of the smell. He'd been around a lot of dead shit in his life, but nothing had ever reeked like this thing did.

A noise in the brush caught their attention, and when they looked up, they noticed another one of the things shuffling through the woods towards them. That's when they realized they needed to get the _fuck_ out of those woods. Something had gone seriously wrong up here, and they sure as hell weren't going to stick around to solve that mystery.

Coming back down the mountain, as they spotted more and more of the creatures or whatever the hell they were, Daryl's mind flashed to Bree and Rollie, waiting for him back at home, and he started to panic. "Jesus, Merle, can't ya get this fucking heap t' go any faster?" Bree was pretty handy with a firearm, but what the hell would she even think if she encountered one of these fuckers? If _he_ had frozen up when he saw one, would she even be able to react in time? Up in the mountains, he and Merle had quickly realized that whatever those things were, they were out for blood. He shuddered to think that Bree would have to figure that out all on her own. And when he thought of how much Rollie liked to hike in the woods around the house, he felt sick. "Come _on_, man!" When Merle didn't even respond with his usual bad humor, Daryl's panic grew.

After what felt like an eternity, Daryl was finally in his own truck, flying over the windy back roads. He kept calling and calling and calling home, but got nothing. Most of the time, he couldn't even get a call to go through, just got the _all circuits are busy_ message. Forcing his mind not to jump to conclusions, he just drove.

Tearing up the driveway, he threw the truck in park and leaped out, keeping his rifle handy. Daryl still wasn't quite sure what these things were, but he wasn't going to let any of them get close enough for him to find out. There were several milling about in the yard, and he took them out, one, two, three. "Bree! Rollie!" he screamed, throwing the door open. The stench of rot almost knocked him over, and he fervently prayed that it was just something in the fridge gone bad.

There was a scraping noise in the kitchen that made his guts twist as quickly as it made his heart leap. "Bree?" Daryl called quietly. "Rollie, is that you, Lil Man?"

Coming around the corner, what he saw made his stomach drop through the floor. He let out a strangled cry of pure anguish and fury. It was her. Only it wasn't really her. She was one of those things now. Her eyes were on him, but they weren't her eyes any more. They were dead. _She_ was dead. And she was hungry for the life that still coursed through him.

Daryl's agony kept him rooted in place as she shuffled towards him, her arms outstretched. Slowly, painfully slowly, he raised his rifle to her, pressing it up against her forehead as she got closer, holding her off, giving himself just a few more minutes to build up the courage to do what he had to do. Her grayed nails clawed out at him even though he was just out of her reach, a horrific, inhuman noise coming out of her mouth. He searched her face, but there was nothing left of what had made her the woman he'd so loved. He moaned, "Jesus, Bree, I'm sorry. I love you. I'm _so fuckin' sorry_." And he pulled the trigger. She dropped limply to the floor. Then he tore the place apart.

He raged and cursed, upending furniture, hurling dishes, putting his fists through the walls again and again. The sobs that ripped from him sounded like a wild animal. Finally, he collapsed against the wall opposite her body. He stared at her, his face gray and his eyes dull. Suddenly, he remembered. "Fuck! Rollie!" How the hell had he forgotten about the kid? He shouldered his rifle again, and took off out the back door into the woods, calling Rollie's name quietly. Again, in the days since he'd first encountered these walking corpses, he'd learned that they were drawn to noise, so he moved as silently as possible. He crept through the brush, not allowing himself to even consider that the boy might be like his mama._ The kid is out here, alive, and I'm gonna fuckin' find him_, he swore.

But as night fell, Daryl trudged out of the forest back to the farmhouse, his shoulders sagging. He paused at the entrance to the house, steeling himself for the sight of what he'd left there hours ago. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet above the fridge and slumped down against the wall. Staring at her motionless body in the darkening room, he began to cry silently. He took a massive swig from the bottle and then began to talk. He told stories of their first chance meeting and then their second where she wouldn't let him get away. He talked about how it surprised him how fast he fell for her, and all the stupid fucking mistakes he'd made. Then he promised her that he would find her boy and keep him safe. Finally, he muttered, "Wherever ya are, if yer anywhere at all, I hope yer at peace." Standing, he added, "Gonna scatter yer ashes on some hallowed ground, baby, like ya always told me."

With a deep, shuddering sigh, he gently picked up her body and carried it outside, carefully laying it in the grass. Then he began to build her a funeral pyre, pausing only to pick off the occasional corpse that ambled out of the woods. Once the body was alight atop the pile, he sat with his whiskey and a cigarette, but didn't watch the flames. His eyes were trained instead on the woods beyond the fire, his hand on the shotgun that rested against his legs. There was a movement in the treeline, so he picked up his gun. Looking through the sight, he aimed at the head of the creature that came shuffling out. It was not the boy, he realized with a twinge of relief. He stared at the thing at it approached, hypnotized by the unreality of it all. _They're like the fuckin' walking dead_, he suddenly understood. _Fuckin' zombies, like in a goddamn horror movie_. He fired and the walker dropped to the ground.

As they continued to come out of the woods, he continued to fire at them, one after the other, until he was out of bullets. But still he didn't stop. He picked up the rifle and smashed it over and over into the heads of the approaching walkers until they were nothing more than a dark smear on the grass. He didn't stop until the fire finally died down when he stared into the smoking ashes, his chest heaving. Covered in blood and bone and tissue, he let out a howl that would have made the blood run cold in people for miles around, if there was anyone alive to hear it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to you guys who are reviewing/favoriting/following already! And mad props to Incog Ninja for her fab beta-reading skillz.**

_Jesus, it's so fucking hot._ He's sweating his ass off in that damn jumpsuit, so he unzips it and ties the arms around his waist. He immediately feels about twenty degrees cooler as he strides over to the concession stand to grab a bottle of water.

As he chugs the cold liquid, he stews over his time in the race tonight. _Fuckin' fourth place. Some kinda bullshit. Jimmy Malone is a fuckin' asshole. Track shouldn't let that piece of shit get behind the wheel._ He pulls a pack of Camels out of the pocket of his jeans and grimaces at how damp it is from his sweat and how crumpled it is from his sitting on it for twenty laps. _Glad I got the fuckin' heap runnin' again._

"Well goddamn, Robin Hood, you make it awful hard for a woman to say a proper thank you," a scratchy voice suddenly purrs in his ear. He turns with a start and is both surprised and massively pleased to see it's _her_.

"Hey there, it's...Bree, right?" Not like he's forgotten her name. This woman for some reason has been showing up randomly in his dreams for going on three months now. He'd been hiking a trail up in the mountains when her boy had come looking for help for his mom who'd somehow managed to get herself stuck down a hole. Of course there was no way Daryl could refuse a panicked little kid with a mama in distress, so he'd been a gentleman and helped the lady out. She'd offered him a drink and some dinner back at her campsite, but he'd been eager to get a move on, so he turned her down. The weirdest thing was that at that point, she hadn't really sparked his interest. She was a little better than average-looking, smart mouth, nice rack, nice smile. But once he was back home, she would pop up in his mind at the oddest times.

She grins up at him, and he suddenly feels a little off balance. _That's_ what he remembers from his dreams. That, and those eyes that sparkle up at him, full of mischief. She definitely does clean up real nice. When he'd seen her last, she was covered with mud and had twigs and leaves sticking out of her mess of curls.

"Now what the hell do y' s'pose the chances are that the two of us would run into each other like this?" she chuckles, stuffing her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, and rocking back on the heels of her red cowboy boots.

He smirks at her, shaking his head slightly. "How's that ankle?" She'd sprained it when she fell down that hole, and he had to help her hobble back down to their campsite. The feeling of her arm wrapped around his waist is another imprint on his brain.

She laughs and rolls her eyes. "Aww, that wasn't nothin'. I was back to kickin' ass and takin' names the very next day."

He raises an eyebrow and replies, "I'll bet ya were."

"So can I buy ya a beer now? It's been eatin' at me that I wasn't able to properly show my 'preciation for your help." She fixes him with that heart-stopping grin again.

_Fuck_. He frowns. "Nah, I gotta race again. They get real pissy if ya have even one beer 'tween races." Before he can suggest they meet up after the race, she scribbles down an address on a slip of paper and hands it to him.

"OK, well y' got one more chance. This here's the address for the bar where I work. You come by some night, an' I'll buy ya dinner."

He takes the paper and carefully slips it into his pocket. "Might just take ya up on that," he tells her with the barest hint of a grin. _Ain't no 'might' about it._

"'Kay. Well, catch ya later, Robin Hood," she sings out at him as she turns on her heel and strolls off.

Realizing he's staring at her ass in those tight blue jeans as she disappears into the crowd, he laughs to himself and shakes his head. _What're the chances...?_

0000000

Boot hitting against his foot. A poke in the shoulder. Merle's voice from miles away. _C'mon, Little Brother, get yer ass outta bed._ Hand on the nightstand, feeling for the smooth little pills he'd accidentally scattered there earlier…or was it yesterday? Pop a couple, swig of Jack, drop back into the past.

0000000

Now they're sitting in the back of his pickup in the parking lot of the liquor store, drinking a couple of tall boys, smoking his Camels, and admiring the stars in the navy velvet sky.

"So where are y' from?" she asks him, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Lawrenceville." He's a little embarrassed to admit this - he drove nearly an hour for the chance to see her again - and fiddles with the tab on his beer can.

"Well, damn, you came a long way for a shitty dinner, didn't ya?" That snake-charming smile is back on her face.

He can tell she's pretty damn pleased about that, so he shoots her the briefest smile. "Yep, guess I did." She leans her shoulder into him briefly, and he closes his eyes for a split second, inhaling her scent: cigarette smoke, a little sweat, and underneath something deep and spicy.

"Hafta admit, I'm glad ya took me up on m' offer."

They are silent for a few minutes. "So is it just you an' your boy?" he asks.

"Yep, just me an' Rollie, til death do us part. Least that's what it feels like some days," she jokes.

"Seems like a good kid. How old?"

"He's nine goin' on forty. Always worryin' 'bout me and money and too much adult shit. I try not to lay too much on him, but he's a smart kid. He picks up on shit without me even sayin'."

He catches her sneaking a peek of the time. "You gotta go?"

"Nah, I got time enough to finish m' beer." She takes another sip of her beer and then asks him, "You got kids?"

"Nope. Not unless you count my forty-year-old, good-for-nothin' brother," he chuckles.

"Oh, you got one a' those in your life, too? Mine's Rollie's dad, so at least I don't have t' claim him as kin." There's her fucking sexy, scratchy laugh again. It makes the hair prickle on the back of his neck. "But goddamn if he ain't 'bout as useless as a screen door on a submarine."

He feels compelled to put in a good word for his brother. "Merle's not so bad. He done all right by me all my life, so I can't talk too much shit 'bout him."

Finishing her beer, she gathers up her purse. "Hate to put an end to the fun, but I gotta go. And you got long drive home, doncha? Sorry t' keep ya out so late."

He knew this moment was coming, so he's a little surprised to feel so damn disappointed. They climb into the truck so he can take her back to her car that's still parked in the lot in front of the restaurant where she works, where he'd finally tracked her down tonight after coming the past two and finding out she wasn't working. He'd teased her about playing hard to get, to which she replied with a laugh, "Like hell I am! I've been tryin' t' track ya down for months. Ain't lettin' ya get away now!" Then she told him her kid had been sick, so she'd been staying home to take care of him.

Sitting there in his truck in front of the darkened restaurant, he's totally captivated by this cute, curvy little woman with the big smile and the sexy laugh. Impulsively, he leans in and kisses her. Then he pulls away, apologizing, "Sorry, hope that was OK."

"Shit, Daryl, that was way better'n OK." This time she kisses him, nice and slow, teasing her tongue with his for the briefest second. She tastes incredible, and his mind flashes to him tearing off her clothes in the bed of his truck. Then the moment is over. She growls, "But I really gotta go. Here's my number. Maybe we can do this again sometime?"

"Yeah, sounds good. I'll call ya." And then in a blink she's gone, and he's out on a dusty road, and she's driving away from him in her car only it's not really her because she's dead and she turns to look at him through the rear windshield and she's dead dead dead.

0000000

Merle again. He needs to fuck off. _Jesus, Little Brother, y' lazy piece of shit. Get yer ass outta bed._ They're back in the trailer. How the fuck did he end up back in the trailer? Through the cobwebs on his brain, he sees the fake wood paneling and ancient Led Zeppelin poster barely hanging onto the wall of his bedroom. He doesn't want to figure out why he's here. He craves the memories of sleep. Squinting, he thinks he catches a glimpse of Bree walking out his bedroom door. He opens his mouth to call her name, but no sound comes out. Another pill or two, no chaser this time, back to black.

0000000

County fair. Why the hell is he at the county fair? Oh yeah, it's her idea of a fun first date. She's meeting him there, won't let him come pick her up for some reason. He spots her on the midway, joking with one of the carnies. He's puzzled for a minute as to how he somehow didn't realize how gorgeous she was that first minute he laid eyes on her. She seems to glow under the carnival lights, mess of curls pulled up in a ponytail, dressed in a little blue dress cinched at a narrow waist he itches to get his hands around, again rocking on the heels of those sexy red cowboy boots. Somehow he manages not to sprint towards her, but keeps a relaxed pace.

He buys them each a corndog and a coke, and they wander the grounds. At one point, she looks up at him curiously, and he realizes he's been staring at her, fascinated by her reactions to what she sees. Everything delights or amuses her, down to the prize-winning pies in the exhibit hall.

Working some more of her Georgia voodoo, she ropes him into playing one of the midway games - the shooting gallery. They plunk down their dollars, and he gives her an evil smirk. "You're goin' down, Cutter."

"Like hell I am, Dixon. You better give your heart t' Jesus 'cause your ass is mine."

Even at one and one, they decide to play once more for a tiebreaker, but the second before the carney tells them to start shooting, she leans over and licks his earlobe. Well, naturally he's completely distracted, and she sails to an easy victory.

"Oh, I see how ya are," he chides her teasingly. "You play dirty."

She raises an eyebrow and gives him a flirty smile. "If you're lucky, you just might get t' find out how dirty I can play."

_Oh really?_

But then she's seated in a folding chair across from the most half-assed psychic he's ever seen. She's giving the psychic a hard time, clearly only half-believing what the lady was telling her. _Why th' hell is she even botherin'?_ he wonders, but then his attention catches on the word "tragedy." He stares at the psychic and is strangely unnerved by the concern evident on her face. Bree doesn't seem phased in the slightest. Back out on the midway, he asks her, "Do ya take that stuff serious?"

She just laughs, "Not really, but who knows? Maybe she knows somethin' we don't."

"So it doesn't bother you, what she was saying about bad shit comin'?" He pulls her down next to him on a bench.

"Aw, c'mon! She wasn't sayin' anythin' that I didn't already know. Everybody's got bad shit that happens to them." She takes his hand, looking serious for the first time since he met her. "I mean, we're all gonna die sooner or later. Look, my mama was twenty-five when she died - just one year younger'n I am now. She was in a car accident, never saw it coming, dead in an instant. You could say it was tragic, or you could think, ain't it better than wastin' away?" She continues, "What I took from it's that life's short, so you best make the most of the time you're given. Enjoy what you got while y' can. Have some fun."

He lights a cigarette for her and one for himself. "Life ain't fun all the time. Just ain't possible."

Taking a drag off the cigarette, she exhales and demands, "Why not? I mean, yeah, I have to work and shit to make a living, but most nights, I like talkin' to people, makin' 'em laugh, helping 'em have a good night. Not too bad for a day's work, right?. An' when I'm not workin', I get to hang out with my awesome kid, go on dates with fine-lookin' men, y'know, stuff like that. How's that for havin' fun?" She stands up, tugging on his hand again. "C'mon, let's go get a beer 'fore I gotta go back home to that awesome kid."

He just sits there for a second, giving her a peculiar look, completely unsure of what to make of her. She's got him totally confused but thoroughly bewitched. Then he stands up, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her right there in the midway. Time slows down for just a second while he closes his eyes and soaks in the taste of her mouth and the warmth of her face in his hands. She pulls away with a sigh, then takes his hand, and they head back to the car.

0000000

Daryl felt a sharp pain across his jaw. His eyes slowly opened a crack, and inch by inch, he managed to sit up. Merle was leaning against the dresser, arms folded, an expression Daryl couldn't identify playing across his blunt features. Rubbing his sore jaw, Daryl grumbled, "What the fuck ya hit me for?"

"Goddamn Little Brother, you been on a fuckin' two day bender. Time t' get yer shit together. Get yer ass outta bed. Ya stink like shit."

Underneath the gruff words, Daryl realized with a shock that it was _concern_ that he was hearing in Merle's voice. That brought him up short. They'd been through a lot of shit together - Merle being the cause of a ton of it himself - but Daryl hadn't ever seen Merle _worried_ about him. Despite this, Daryl wasn't ready to come back to reality. He lay back down, reaching over to the nightstand where he'd been finding those gorgeous little pills that did such an excellent job bringing on his pleasant dreams, but came up empty. "The fuck, man? Did ya take all those pills yerself?" Daryl slurred.

"Maybe I did. C'mon man, it's time t' get up. Rise an' shine, motherfucker." Merle grabbed Daryl's arm and tried to drag him out of bed, but got a foot to the stomach for his trouble. "Jesus, asshole! I'm just tryin' t' help ya."

"Mind yer own fuckin' business." Daryl buried his head under a pillow, trying to smother out everything about the present time. If he could just go back to sleep, it would be so much better.

"What about the kid?"

Daryl froze, a tidal wave of guilt washing over him. "What 'bout him?" he asked bitterly. "I was out there ev'ry day for a week an' a half, and I ain't found him yet. Prob'ly one of those fuckin' walkers now." His words were callous, but he felt physical pain to think how he'd failed the boy and his mama yet again.

Merle snorted in disgust. "Can't believe a _Dixon_ would give up so fuckin' easy. Never realized you were such a pussy." He leaned in so he was nose to nose with Daryl and hissed, "He's _out there_. Y'said so yerself. Y'said you were gonna fuckin' find him an' bring him back here, didn't ya? And look at ya, fuckin' stoned outta yer mind, sleepin' away yer days. Should call ya _Merle_ or somethin'." He gave Daryl a stern look, and then left him alone.

Daryl groaned. His body ached like he'd been on the losing end of a brawl instead of sleeping for days. His head was filled with static, and his mouth tasted like roadkill. Slowly, slowly, he forced himself out of bed and headed for the shower.


End file.
